Becoming The Code

Becoming The Code: Part 2

Forty-five minutes after school let out, Jamal finally left the building. He hurried home along his usual route through the empty streets. The children were likely inside on their screens. This was fine with Jamal as he didn't like his classmates any more than they liked him.

A predictable grid made up the blocks near the school. Neat and tidy houses lined the streets with short fences. The vinyl-sided buildings appeared to be relatively new in matching shades of grey. Each had a bright-green front lawn that never changed. "Always Green, the lawns that built champions," the commercial announcer said as it showed boys playing ball in the front lawn fading into the famous ball players -- Brick Besket and Joe Diamond. Perfect sidewalks lined the streets and led to each house's front door. The hot sun beat overhead, making the artificial lawns smell of melted plastic and sting his nose. The only thing to distinguish one house from the next were planted flowers or kids' bikes deposited on the cement driveways.

No one in Jamal's neighborhood would leave their bikes out, but this was Tree Park and the police monitored it constantly. Jamal wore his key around his neck, so he wouldn't lose it and could get into his apartment when his mom worked late, which was often. Kids at school often asked about his weird necklace as they didn't recognize a key.

Tree Park was oddly absent of trees. Other than that, it was a pretty nice area. His mom wanted to move there but never got a lottery spot. Even the sidewalks were sparkling clean--like they were just poured.

That's why it seemed so strange to Jamal to see the graffiti on the dark-grey mailbox by the school. A series of numbers painted in blue that almost made Jamal stop. Luckily, he caught himself before he did. He needed to get as much space between himself and that mailbox as possible. The last thing he needed was for people to think he was graffitiing Tree Park.

He picked up his pace and continued west a few more blocks until he reached King's Hill. The buildings grew tall, at least five stories if not ten or twelve -- each crammed with apartments. Great, old trees held squawking birds and squirrels. In the center of the twisted roads sat a small park. Children, drawn to the one working swing, overlooked the trash and overgrown grass and laughed heartily. A bronze statue marked the center of the park and King's Hill. As a boy, he and his friends would climb the statue and shout that they were the kings of King's Hill.

There wasn't a fence or a special sign separating the neighborhoods, but you knew when you crossed the border. More than anything, graffiti marked King's Hill with every color imaginable --from simple tags of names to elaborate drawings. They changed often. Jamal's muscles relaxed the moment he stepped onto the grimy sidewalk. He took a deep breath and inhaled the earthy scent of the oak tree beside him.

He turned the corner and stopped at his grandmother's dingy, blue apartment. The buzzer didn't work so he waited for someone to go in or come out. An older man with a buggy started down the flight of stairs. His cane dropped down each step first, then one leg, then the other, and finally the buggy. It would take a while for him to reach the front door.

Jamal eyes followed the graffiti on the building and noticed numbers. Are they the same numbers that were on the mailbox? Couldn't be though, could it?

If 6,561  = 81, and 81  = 9, and 9  = 3,

Then 4,096  = 64, and 64  = 8, and 8  = ?

The squeaking sound of the old man's battered cart brought Jamal from his thoughts. He barely caught the door as it swung shut. He climbed the stairs two at a time to the second floor, turned left, and then right before reaching number eleven. A prime apartment, Gran always said.

He knocked three times and turned the knob. He could already smell the place through the door -- a mixture of tea, honey and old paper. His cheeks turned up into a smile. He pictured Gran bundled up on the sofa with blankets and her books. She would look up and smile as if Jamal was the only person in the world. A big fuss would be made with all kinds of questions. She would make him tea and cookies on a china set that belonged to her grandmother. They would both settle down on the sofa and read until the phone rang. And it always would ring. "Tell him to hurry home before dark." He could almost hear his mother's voice through the receiver.